Chicken Soup for the Sheriff's Soul
by Rebecca S. Smithey
Summary: Walt Longmire survives multiple dangers in his life, but can he overcome the common cold?


**Chicken Soup for the Sheriff's Soul**

**By**

**Nora Lou Wilson **

**And**

**Rebecca S. Smithey**

A note to the reader: This story is a mix of things from the books and T.V. series. For instance, Dog makes his appearance here but not in the show. (Hey A&E – we want Dog next season!) Branch is here but not in the books…was he supposed to be Turk?

Also…this story is based on what happened to the two of us as we battled summer colds this year, and one of us had only a 48-hour reprieve…hope you enjoy, and all reviews are welcome…

Sheriff Walt Longmire had survived being shot, knifed, drowned and any number of other bumps and bruises over the years…hypothermia…frostbite…and bar fights…

Yet who would have thought he would almost meet his match in a bout with…a common, summer cold?

Walt had paid no attention as a nasty bug began to crawl all over Absaroka County. He was very proud of his strong, internal constitution, thank you very much, which probably explained how he had been able to survive being shot, knifed, etc…etc…He even remembered getting an award in school for perfect attendance. He was also proud of the fact that he had never been really sick a day in his life.

_pride goeth before the fall…_

He got mildly concerned when, one after the other, his deputies began to get sick. Branch was the first to show all the signs. He came in one morning with a slight case of the sniffles. By mid-day, he had chills and a cough that rattled the office windows. He really looked like hell, so Walt sent him home.

Ferg was next, calling in sick a day or two later. No one saw him for seventy-two hours. At that point, Walt got Vic to drive over to Ferg's and make a welfare check on him. She came back to the office, said he was recovering, then came down with a bad cold of her own. His deputies were dropping like flies, but he did not get really alarmed until a day or two after Vic had gotten sick.

He sat in his office and watched the sunset turn the summer sky into a blaze of orange and red. When Ferg (now fully recovered) finally called it a day and left the office, the twilight shy was fading into shades of blues and bruised purples.

At the moment, the jail had no boarders, but Walt could not summon up the energy or motivation to drive out to his little, lonely cabin. He took a couple of potpies du jour from the freezer, heated them in the microwave, and shared his feast with Dog. After they ate, he moved a floor lamp closer to the bars so the light would shine onto a cot, then he stretched out. He propped open a leather-bound book Cady had given him for his birthday and lost himself in the world of Sherlock Holmes. When he finally fell asleep, his dreams were murky and mysterious.

The jail phone rang, jarring him awake. The Seth Thomas clock showed 2 a.m. He stumbled over Dog, hung onto the bars of the cell door to keep from falling then grabbed the phone just before it clicked over to voice mail.

"Absaroka County Sheriff's Department," he mumbled. His throat felt raw, like he'd had a couple of Henry's Mexican cheeseburgers with extra jalapenos. He rubbed the grit from his eyes.

"Walt?" The voice on the other end sounded as raspy as his throat felt. "It's Ruby."

He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Ruby – what's wrong?" A number of scenarios – all of them bad – raced through his mind.

"I'm sick, Walter." He had to admit, she sounded like hell. "I'm running a fever, so I won't be at work today. I am sorry."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No, my husband's here. He'll take care of me. I just wanted to let you know."

"No worries – just take care of yourself." He hung up the phone. Ruby had never missed a day of work in all the years he had known her. _**Now**_, he was concerned.

He lay back down on the bunk and tried to go back to sleep, but he couldn't find a way to get comfortable. He wrapped himself in a county-owned blanket, because he suddenly felt chilly…_did someone turn the a.c. back on?_

His book lay on the floor, forgotten. The way his body began to ache, he thought about putting out an APB for the imaginary truck that had hit him. When he breathed, he could hear the wheezing.

Vic was the first to arrive at work that morning, a little before dawn. Two days of complete bed rest and heavy doses of Nyquil had gotten her over the cold. That, and the threat from her mother that maybe she should fly out to take care of her only daughter during her illness. Between the threat of imminent "rescue" and the bed rest, it was driving her as crazy as (in Lucian's words) a waltzing pissant.

She started down the hall to make coffee, flipping on lights as she went. Noises from the nearest holding cell caught her attention, so she stepped closer to the bars. "Jesus, Walt – you look like hell!"

He sat huddled on the edge of the cot, the blanket around his shoulders. "I think I want a second opinion," he mumbled.

"Okay, you're old, too." The look he gave her was not pretty. "Sorry, Walt – just couldn't resist."

He tried to take a deep breath, but a coughing fit interrupted. Dog began to bark along in a show of support. When he finally quit coughing, he saw Vic leaning against the cell bars a look of concern on her face. "Walt, do you need to go see a doctor or something?"

He shook his head and immediately regretted it, because the movement made him feel like throwing up. "No…no doctor…I'm okay…just need to rest…" he started to lay back down, but she rushed over and took his arm.

"No, Walt, you need to go home. RIGHT NOW!"

She helped him to his feet. "You realized we're gonna have to fumigate this cell before we put anybody in there again, right?"

"You're fired!"

"Then who'd take your sick ass home?"

He thought about arguing with her, but he couldn't summon the energy, so he surrendered his keys to the Bullet.

"I'll get Ferg to come get me after I get you settled at home." She opened the passenger door of the Bullet, Dog scrambled into the back, and Walt dragged himself up into the seat. _Geez, Cloud Peak wasn't __this__ hard!_

By the time Vic got him back to his cabin, he was freezing, even though the day was sunny and warm. The cold had seeped into his very bones. She helped him inside, and was moving him toward his bedroom when he stopped. "I'm just fine on the couch," he told Vic quickly.

"You need Tylenol and a lot of orange juice," she said. "You got anything vaguely resembling those things?" She stepped into his kitchen and opened the fridge. "A six pack of Rainier and a moldy pack of bologna…Jesus, Walt, college students live better than **you** do."

"I'll call Cady later and ask her to bring some stuff," he said. "Right now, all I need is some rest." He stretched out on the couch. "I'll be just fine."

Vic went into the bathroom. In the cabinet over the sink, she found a bottle of aspirin with an expiration date of six months ago. _Beggars can't be choosers…_she hoped that its medicinal effects hadn't totally expired yet.

She stood over him as he swallowed the aspirin with a glass of water. He even let her cover him with an Indian blanket from his bed, but that was all his strained patience would allow. "Vic, for God's sake, go back to work and leave me alone – _**please**_!"

"Men are such babies when they get sick."

By the time Ferg drove up to take Vic back to the station, the aspirin had dulled the aches, Walt had his boots off and was asleep. Dog lay at his feet, keeping watch. He awoke a few hours later to the sounds of someone moving around his kitchen. His head felt heavy, and he was having a little trouble breathing. His mind was foggy and filled with the memory of troubled dreams. He rolled over and tried to blink his eyes open. "Martha?' he muttered.

A figure stood in the doorway. "No, Dad," Cady said. "It's just me."

He could not help but smile. "Hey, just you," Walt replied. "What are you doin' here?"

"I called the station…you know…just to say hi, and Vic told me you were sick, so I came over to help."

"Punk, you shouldn't have done that. I sure don't want you to get this." He tried to get up off the couch, but only got as far as sitting up and resting his stuffy head in his hands.

"Don't worry about me, Dad. I've brought you everything you need for a bad cold: Tylenol, orange juice and…Jewish penicillin!"

When her father looked at her with a puzzled look on his face, Cady held up a container. "It's chicken soup. Lana Baroja at the bakery made it. I guess that really makes it Basque, but she said she got the recipe from Doc Bloomfield, so it's kosher." She snorted a laugh. "Kosher…get it? That's a joke…"

Walt shook his head, Cady turned back toward the kitchen. "I'll just heat up the soup. Oh, and I talked to Henry. He said to tell you that if you survive that long he'll be over later with an OIT that will cure you."

"There's no cure for the common cold, except rest and plenty of fluids." He finally stood up and shuffled across the hardwood floor toward the kitchen. Cady stood at the stove, stirring liquid in a small, copper-bottomed pot. Even as stuffy as he was, he had to admit that the Jewish penicillin smelled really good.

"I've also got some soft rolls she baked this morning." She pulled out a chair at the tiny round table. "Here, Dad. Sit."

Feeling just a little like Dog, he did as ordered. "Woof."

She shot him a dirty look, then opened the fridge and poured a large glass of orange juice. She put the glass in front of him. "It's the start on your 'plenty of liquids.'"

The juice tasted like fresh squeezed, with lots of pulp, and he drained it. She refilled it from a half gallon and handed it back to him. This glass he drank more slowly, savoring the way it seemed to replenish something his body sorely needed.

He went to the bathroom and washed up a bit. He avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror, cause he knew he must look like the poster child for death warmed over. When he got back to the kitchen, the smells coming from the stove were enticing.

He and Cady sat at the table, enjoying the thick, seasoned soup. The rolls were soft and doughy. He finally pushed away from the table, full.

Cady helped him back to the couch, tucked him in like he used to do to her then kissed him lightly on the forehead.

"You'll get sick, Punk."

"I'll take my chances, Dad. Henry will be here later, and I'll call to check on you." She started to leave, but turned back at the open door. "Love you, Dad."

"Love you, Punk." Walt turned to the back of the couch and was asleep again before Cady had pulled out of the driveway.

When he woke up again, it was fully dark outside. Henry sat on the chair next to him and held out a tiny glass of amber-colored liquid. "Step one of the cure for the common cold."

Walt tossed back the honey and lemon laced whiskey in one swallow, feeling it warm his body as it ran down his throat – setting it on fire. Henry helped him to his feet. "It is now time for step two."

Henry guided Walt into his tiny bathroom. The first thing Walt noticed was the heat. Henry had heated the room until it felt like he was stepping into an oven. "What the hell?"

"I did not have time to construct a proper sweat lodge," Henry explained. "So, we have to make do with the modern version of an OIT."

As Walt stripped off his clothes, Henry filled the tub with steaming water. Before he could settle into the water, Henry produced a small jar of mentholated salve and began slathering it all over Walt's chest, back and face. He watched, remembering. "Granma Bear's remedy?"

"Of course." Henry pointed to the tub. "Get in, and when you start to sweat, give it fifteen minutes…" he left the room, calling back over his shoulder, "I will be right outside."

"What…you're not gonna scrub my back?"

Henry laughed. "You are most definitely not my type, Tonto."

Walt stepped into the water, gasping just a bit with the heat. The tub was an old-fashioned, claw-foot type that was deeper than normal. Walt closed his eyes and lost himself in the heat. Quickly, the booze and the heat made the sweat start pouring from every inch of his body. At exactly the fifteen minute mark, Henry knocked on the door. "Drain the water, take a warm shower, wash your hair, scrub yourself, then come out."

"Yes, Dad," Walt shot back.

He followed Henry's instructions, and barely had the strength to wrap his threadbare robe around him and come out. He was suddenly absolutely exhausted. He stumbled back to his couch and collapsed on it.

Henry sat next to him and handed him a cold Rainier. "You get one – for good behavior," he told Walt. As Henry got to his feet, he threw the Indian blanket over him. "Get some sleep."

One thing about Old Indian Tricks and Grandmother's Remedies – they always worked. The next morning when Walt woke up, he could breathe without wheezing, his body aches were gone, and he was starving.

He took another shower, put on a clean uniform and drove to the Busy Bee for breakfast. On the way, he stopped at the Red Pony to thank Henry. After breakfast, he drove to the only florist in town and sent thank you balloons to Cady and a get well bouquet to Ruby. That only left Vic, so Walt bought her something from the florist, as well.

He walked into the Sheriff's office and put a small, brown teddy bear on Vic's desk. "What is hell is this?" she demanded.

"Just a little something to say thanks for playing nursemaid," he told her.

He could not believe how good he felt. It was almost too good to be true.

Turns out, it was…forty-eight hours after the modern sweat lodge he woke up in the middle of the night with a fever and a cough that rattled the cabin windows. He sat up and tossed his pillow across the room in frustration. _Well, damn!_


End file.
